The rain drummed against the stained-glass windows of the Great Hall like a hundred tiny hammers. Each droplet rattled against the stone, mixing with the deep, rolling tolls of Tharos’ bells. Lior Vireth adjusted his soaked robes, gripping the hem as he moved between the throng. The scent of wet stone, burning torches, and damp furs filled the air. He had never felt so small, so insignificant in a single room.

  King Rhaedric Thalvorn Ardentis lay atop the black stone bier, as though even death had not stripped him of authority. His scars stretched across his chest and arms like a map of centuries of war. Lior’s throat tightened as he saw the fingers, gnarled but still commanding, resting over the emblem of the Stone. Even in stillness, Rhaedric radiated presence.

  The Great Hall was packed. Nobles, soldiers, and envoys from all five kingdoms jostled for space, each cloaked in their colors, each trying to appear respectful while nursing old grievances. Valcaryn banners, black and silver, stretched across the far wall, and nearby a Draemholt envoy whispered sharply to his companion.

  “Do you think the Stone will act soon?” he asked, voice tight with fear and excitement.

  “Shh,” the other hissed, scanning the hall. “The priests hear everything. And the Stone sees everything, even when it does not speak.”

  Lior flinched. He knew that fear all too well. The Stone waited beneath the ground, patient, silent, eternal. It had chosen Rhaedric centuries ago, granting him immortality and dominion over all five kingdoms. And now, its favor had been withdrawn. Even whispers carried weight here.

  A page stumbled past, nearly colliding with Lior. He caught the boy by the shoulder. “Watch your steps,” he hissed, heart pounding. “The floor is slick.”

  The boy’s eyes were wide. “I—I’m sorry, Father Lior. I’ve never—”

  Lior shushed him. There would be time for lessons later. For now, the room was alive with tension.

  From the far end of the hall, a Valcaryn knight leaned against a column, trying to appear disinterested. He was young, barely seventeen or eighteen, and yet there was a quiet awareness in his posture. Lior barely noticed him—Ashen Hale, as he would later be named, though for now he was just another shadow against the banners.

  The High Priest, Edrion Vireth, stepped forward, robes billowing, staff in hand. His presence silenced even the whispers. Every head turned toward him, but Lior’s eyes lingered on the king.

  “The king…” Lior murmured under his breath.

  “Do not speak aloud,” Edrion said, voice low but sharp. “Even here, words carry more weight than swords. Observe, learn.”

  Lior swallowed. He had been in the Great Hall dozens of times, but today, everything was different. Today, the hall was a battlefield of glances, half-spoken tensions, and unspoken rivalries.

  A sudden murmur rippled through the assembly. The Myrrathen envoy, an older man with a thin scar running down his cheek, leaned toward the Draemholt commander.

  “Five centuries…” he whispered. “Can any king survive what he survived?”

  “None,” the commander replied, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. “Not without the Stone. Not without a body forged in war and fire.”

  The torches flickered violently as a draft blew through the hall. One guttered, smoke curling toward the ceiling. Lior’s eyes darted to the source. A guard had tripped, sending the torch sliding dangerously close to the bier.

  “Steady!” shouted Edrion, striding forward. With a flick of his staff, he motioned for other priests to extinguish the flames. Calm returned, though the tension lingered like the scent of smoke in the air.

  Lior noticed subtle movements among the envoys. The Valcaryn envoy’s fingers twitched near the hilt of his dagger. The Draemholt commander’s eyes darted toward a group of Tharos soldiers standing rigidly by the doors. Every motion was calculated, every glance a test.

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  Edrion raised his staff. “King Rhaedric ruled because he was chosen. Because he was worthy. Because he endured where others fell. His victories stretched across five kingdoms, and his will was stronger than any army’s blade.”

  The hall was silent. Lior felt his heart hammering. He glanced at the Draemholt envoy—an unmistakable flicker of envy crossed the older man’s face. Beside him, a Myrrathen noble whispered hurriedly to his scribe.

  “Record this carefully. You never know when another will rise.”

  Lior shivered. Another will rise… or fall. The Stone would decide, as it always had.

  Suddenly, a loud clang echoed from the far balcony. A Tharos page had dropped a ceremonial sword. The sound ricocheted like thunder. Gasps followed, and whispers turned into murmurs of fear. Lior caught sight of a shadow darting along the balcony railing. Something was not right.

  “Everyone remain calm!” Edrion’s voice boomed. “No disturbance will desecrate the memory of the king!”

  The shadow flickered again, barely visible. Lior’s stomach dropped. Was it just a servant? Or something… darker?

  Near the hall’s side, Ashen Hale pressed his back against the cold stone, trying to stay unnoticed. His dark eyes scanned the crowd, the flickering torches, the banners, and the priests. He said nothing, moved nothing—yet his presence, quiet and measured, made Lior catch a fleeting sense of unease he couldn’t explain.

  The Draemholt envoy’s hand twitched again toward the dagger at his belt. The Myrrathen scribe paused mid-note, sensing the tension like a stone vibrating underfoot. Every noble shifted subtly, as if waiting for a signal that might never come.

  Edrion walked closer to the bier, lifting his staff. “And now, we honor him not for death, but for life. For battles fought. For unity forged. For a world shaped by one man’s will.”

  A distant thunderclap shook the windows. Lior felt it in his chest. Outside, lightning lit the banners in bursts of white fire. The hall went quiet again. Every whisper, every movement, every heartbeat felt magnified.

  A sudden cough erupted from the Valcaryn envoy near the entrance, followed by a rustle of robes. Lior’s head snapped toward it. A dagger—small, almost invisible—clattered to the floor. Every eye turned, gasping. Edrion’s gaze swept the hall, sharp and unyielding.

  “Enough!” the High Priest shouted. “The dead are not to be used as stage for your treachery!”

  The assassin, whoever they were, disappeared into the chaos of uniforms, robes, and banners. Lior felt his hands shake. This… this was not just a funeral. The moment was alive, dangerous, fragile.

  Edrion lowered his staff, voice softer now, almost reverent. “Remember King Rhaedric Thalvorn Ardentis. Remember his sword, his will, his endurance. Five kingdoms bowed to him. And yet even the immortal falls when the Stone withdraws its favor.”

  He stepped back, letting the murmurs swell, letting the hall breathe. Lior noticed soldiers exchanging tense glances. Nobles whispered among themselves. Envoys scribbled notes furiously. Pages shuffled nervously. The hall, massive and gilded, felt alive, watching, waiting.

  Lior’s gaze returned to the bier. Even still, the king seemed to hold the hall in his grasp. His chest no longer rose, his eyes were closed—but his presence was immense.

  Somewhere deep beneath the Great Hall, the Stone waited. Silent. Watching. Patient. Lior’s chest tightened.

  And for a fleeting heartbeat, he wondered… who would it choose next?